


Flame

by klismaphilia, skydork (klismaphilia)



Category: Town of Salem (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, arsonist is too fiery, consort has a german accent, frantic kissing, half-smut, imagine that while you read this, lots of fire puns, the big three words, they actually do care, thinking about burning people alive, this town is full of surprises
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-06
Updated: 2015-10-07
Packaged: 2018-04-25 03:29:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4945036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/klismaphilia/pseuds/klismaphilia, https://archiveofourown.org/users/klismaphilia/pseuds/skydork
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You light me up in a way nobody else can." Drabble, Arsonist/Consort.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Beloved

**Author's Note:**

> YES THEY HAVE NAMES. eventually, after I started my whole AU with TJ, we started naming all of the characters (as you'll see when we get around to posting all our stuff.) for now, this is just a brief teaser of a larger thing i'm working on, but with classes, i have no clue when it will be done.
> 
> so. Consort/Arsonist. kudos to my mate irl for the recommendation. love you, bruv.

It hadn’t taken long before he was pinned back against the wall, absolutely ravaged by those hands that were drawing hot trails over his ribcage, those lips that were biting, sucking, tearing at his neck in a way that did little but cause his back to arch. Being pinned, with his hands trapped against the wall and the Arsonist’s hand pushing between his legs were more than enough to cause his pulse to flare, vibrant and heavy, and he sucked in a breath and then let it out shakily.

“Devour me,” he says breathlessly, “It’s too heated for me to handle.” Because the atmosphere’s already going up in smoke, far too quickly for him to do much more than lie there breathlessly before he’s being shoved to the floor and there are lips prying his apart and he’s shaking, strained, laughing in painful little wails as his hands fist in the Arsonist’s shirt and he revels in the smell of gasoline.

The Arsonist had never been one for such pleasantries, the only love needed at his fingertips in an instant with the strike of a match. And yet he’d kept coming back, night after night, to push the Consort up against the wall and pin him down on the bed and leave trailing marks across his throat, work a hand between his legs until the younger man’s visage was entirely red and he was practically begging for more. He’d always been desperate, and even now, his eyes only betrayed a further sense of that.

He pushes the Consort’s hands down, pinning them alongside his head and running a tongue over the curve of his throat, just waiting…

“You light me up in a way nobody else can,” the Consort gasps out as he tries to tug the other closer, pressing his face to clothes covered in soot and breathing in, heavy against the fabric.

“Do you enjoy being burned, Acacius?”

“I am the moth to your flame, no?” The Consort says as though he doesn’t particularly understand, but it’s enough that he doesn’t care because lips are back on his and there’s a hand working its way between his legs and he loves to come undone for this man, for the Arsonist, for _Grey_. His back arches and he draws circles with his now-freed hand against solid pectorals, making a move to look the man in the eye.

“You like to burn me.” And they both know it’s true, the Arsonist realizes, thinking about just how much he’d like to take a flame to that pale skin and watch it ignite, watch it tumble and mold and burn so delightfully. But there’s something about the Consort’s face that he doesn’t want to lose, and so he keeps the thought down, swallows back the feelings as he blows out the candle lighting the house beside the bed, leaving nothing to the Consort’s imagination with the little glance in his eye.

“I like to _engulf_ you,” was the simple response. “And you’re so desperate for love.”

And it was true, the Consort thinks, as an arm is thrown around his form and he’s being pressed down so quickly, not another thought in mind as he blanks from the subtle kisses, the nips at his throat, the fingers working their way inside him… He simply allows for a tiny, graceless smile in the darkness and tangles his hand around Grey’s and breathes in.

“I love you, Grey.”

 


	2. Affliction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because everyone has affliction, and some are just more evident than others.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SOMEONE MISSED ME SOMEONE MISSED ME AAAAAA
> 
> seriously, thank you so much for that comment on the first section of this. :3 i do not get many comments and it made me feel magnifique~ merci beaucoup! je t'adore, souviens tu es belle!
> 
> as for this fic, i have three more chapters planned- they involve first meeting, lighting a house on fire together and drinking tea when the Arsonist can't sleep. so look forward to it!

It was... a most peculiar thing, looking back on it.

He'd always been weak, almost morbidly so- there was a reason his skills came in distraction, 'honeypotting' if you will. He'd always been willing to let others mark him up- it did little more than shade his skin red and purple.

Yet even then, this was different; it wasn't obligation that drove him back to the Arsonist. Was it the immoral tremor in his chest that threatened... what was it... tachycardia? The Consort had been plagued by sickness through his life, dire affliction that left him to struggle for breath. He remembered gasping, clawing at himself wildly, his eyes wide and bloodshot through long hours. But he didn't fear the rupture of his heart- didn't fear death.

It was in a spell of affliction that he'd met Grey- he hadn't heard the footsteps outside his door through the ache in his head, but he had smelled the gasoline. It was a rather... interesting odor, something often smelled before he'd come to Salem. Smokestacks and cars in the filthy city reeked of it. He'd lived in Harlem in a run down flat for years, until the wreck crashed through a window. But even then, he remembers the smell of tankers in Berlin and thinks, _Yes, gasoline smells of home and it reeks, but this man is good man and he reminds me of Berlin._

He had never been sure what had led him to wrap arms around the Arsonist's strong shoulders, draw the man back with insistent kisses. He'd had so many things he'd thought to ask- wanted to know what had plagued him, why it was this harsh light that had captivated him so. Yet he kept quiet- for fear of losing the Arsonist's attention lest the other hear his harsh accent and demanding argument.

Even now, as he lies still beside Grey, tracing pale fingertips over the older man’s arms, shaking away dirty blonde hair that’s fallen in his eyes, he is silent.

“Why is it your affliction?” Acacius inquires, pressing his face into the hot skin of the Arsonist’s crooked neck, arms clinging to the other’s stilled form- limber, smaller than his own, but so much stronger.

“Affliction?” The other responds, turning to him with a quirked brow.

“Ja. It is your aura- orange like fire. Fire is your affliction… why?” He’s surprised at the kiss placed to his lips- chaste, barely there- before his shoulders are being forced away and he’s left staring up to the Arsonist, puzzled. His own orbs are wide, more than usual, though the green still sparkles with mirth. “I do not mean to… make you… disquiet?”

“I know,” Grey replies, resting a stained hand against the Consort’s warm cheek, taking a deep breath. “You could never upset me.” He turns away, eyes focusing on the scabbed and crumbling white paint of the faded wall. “I suppose it calls to me… makes me whole again. You understand?”

“I do not understand,” the Consort breathes, his eyes still largely open, clearly hazed with confusion. “How something so deadly can mend this… empty?”

“It’s a conundrum for someone of your age,” the Arsonist answers absentmindedly. “You’ll understand one day. You have your own vices, just like the rest of us.”

“I do not sin. I am perfection,” the Consort declares, giving the other an amused smirk to show him amusement before he’s pressing his cheek to the Arsonist’s chest, just above his heart. “You are so slow.”

“I’m quick when alight,” Grey replies, threading a hand through the other’s blond locks. “Almost as loud as you. too.”

"It is not my fault! I like sex. What is not to excite me?” Acacius responds with a small glare, but it evens out into a half-grin. “You are funny man, Grey. Very funny. Very loud.” As if to emphasize, his teeth latch onto the side of the Arsonist’s throat, digging into the soft flesh to draw a heated moan.

“I want to burn you,” the Arsonist mumbles.

“Then burn me if you like. I still love you.”

And with that, he settles himself back against the Arsonist’s side- it’s moments like these, content, amused little flashes that really seem to settle their relationship. Because even though the Consort moves around, even though he seems to be in a different bed almost every night, he’s never been quite as comfortable as when he’s in the Arsonist’s arms. Perhaps that is his affliction- that he’s falling arse-over-elbow for this man and it’s happening far too quick.

But then again, the Arsonist was the only one who could keep up with his rapid questions and foolish remarks, because the Consort was his, and they both knew it. Grey put up with his heavy, thick, abrupt accent and the stupid blemishes on his skin when the Disguiser didn’t do his makeup and the way his fingers traced over the man’s bare flesh until the Arsonist practically shivered.

 **  
**_The smell of gasoline is very a comfort,_ the Consort muses. _And the noise Grey makes when I am flipping him over and pressing him into the mattress. Very pleasing._


End file.
